


Next to Your Heartbeat

by IdrisSmith



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Excuse for Fluff, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/pseuds/IdrisSmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance was probably one thing that was not Sherlock Holmes area. Don’t get him wrong, he could be charming and had been charming – but romance, well even if Molly wasn’t complaining, he had to get one thing right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next to Your Heartbeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> This is a five chapters story I wrote on an off for a better part of six months. It's mostly me having fun with the idea of Sherlock being suck at proposing and everyone sort of just came into the picture in one way or another to get him prepared - or so to speak. And seeing it is [afteriwake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake)'s birthday, I would like to dedicate this fiction to her. Hope you're having a good birthday!

Saturday, 7AM, The Week Before

 

Too early, it was way too early for Sherlock Holmes to be up. No, it was not because he was not a morning person, no; it was because he had grown rather accustomed to wake later in the day when he had a long night. And a long night he had. Chasing a serial killer with a necrophilia tendency had taken a toll on him. Or he could have just been getting too old for the game – no.

 

He vaguely remember it was five in the morning when he rolled into bed, shedding his clothes, scattering it around the room before sliding under the duvet. The bedside clock had blinked red, unpleasant colour.

 

The alarm had not gone off. It could have, but, he might have been too tired to notice it. It was usually set for six or six thirty, depending on what sort of day it was. On a Saturday or Sunday when laziness kicked in, it was always six because getting up would need a lot more convincing.

 

No, he did not wake because of the alarm. He was awaken as he turned and found the side of the bed that since over a year ago had been occupied by one Molly Hooper had been empty. That was enough to jolt Sherlock awake. Sleepiness was still heavy on his eyes, but, he had grown accustomed to her snuggled to his side in the morning that her absence had caused him to be somewhat uneasy.

 

Right. She was supposed to be at work this weekend. He hated it, when she had to work on weekends, but, it was not like murders or anyone who’d want to commit suicide would take the weekend off for his comfort. He groaned remembering how Molly would scowl at him for his lack of tact on the last thought that crossed his mind. Molly, yes, she made him better in every way. His mind was never at ease until he allowed himself to stop putting on the hard mask he had worn for so long. She kept him grounded and at the same time pushing his every limit.

 

He wondered why he had not yield to the very idea of the two of them much sooner. It even got to the point where he nearly missed the chance, thrice. Her engagement, her near death experience at the hands of Moriarty’s men who were loyal enough to carry out his plans after his demise and his own near death experience, very recently so.

 

Then again, all things have its time and place. He smiled, thinking how far gone he had gotten since the day he realized he couldn’t let her go, not anymore. His confession was clumsy at best. But she, as always, understood him as he fumbled with his words. The best day of his life since was every moment she had said yes to him. Yes to being his companion, yes to moving in, yes to filling in for John without a fair notice, so many yeses to even the smallest things.

 

He was turning into a sap and he didn’t care. Though, it was just for her. To others he was still the same Sherlock, more or less. It didn’t matter; those who knew him knew enough of his personality to care about it. They would berate him every now and then, but no one doubted he loved Molly. Mary had said, when he asked, it was all in the little things like bringing coffee. People missed it; those who didn’t work closely with him wouldn’t notice it.

 

Well, Anderson was happy, spearing what he called the Sherlolly ship. Whatever that meant, Sherlock couldn’t care less. He sighed, running his hand through his hair, taking a minute before getting out of bed. He stalked uneasily towards the hidden compartment under a drawer, pulling it slightly to retrieve the box he had kept hidden for a better part of a month.

 

A month. It was not because he was unwilling to ask her. He wanted to give her everything. Anything she’d ever wanted in life. If she would just ask him, he wouldn’t even hesitate. She was his heart.

 

He fiddled with the box, anxious. Ever since he bought the ring, he had been trying to find a perfect way to ask her. He had picked out the place and reconsidered it. He had picked out the time, only to chicken out minutes before. Luckily for him, Molly seemed to have not noticed his intentions and if even she had, she might have been too polite to say anything, or even going as far as thinking it was not something that would be possible.

 

Well, things were surely working against his favour. He turned on his heels, grabbing his dressing gown (his second best, seeing Molly seemed to love the ones he loved best and he couldn’t bear to say no to her) and exit the room, rings shoved into the pocket of the gown.

 

“Tiffany’s,” Mycroft’s usual bored tone greeted Sherlock and Sherlock spotted his brother immediately, still reading, not bothering to look up from the newspaper in his hands, “Quite a fine choice.”

 

Sherlock groaned, he thought he did well losing the tail his brother had assigned to him, clearly, he did not. Mycroft’s men seemed to have taken keeping tabs on him even more seriously as of late. Ditching them had been proven to be a task. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he should praise the men and women who had been placed for his security detail or resent them.

 

His eyes fixed on Mycroft who had finally folded the paper, placing it squarely on the side table, picking up a cup of tea in absence of the paper in his hands. “Brother mine, if you’re looking for rings to give Miss Hooper –”

 

“It’s Molly, Mycroft, for heaven’s sake, how long are you going to call her Miss Hooper?” Sherlock snarled. It was getting old, Mycroft’s refusal to refer to his friends with their first name. It was understandable with Mrs Hudson seeing everyone seemed to refer her as such, but it got to the point where it was getting on Sherlock’s nerve, especially on the morning where he was trying to figure out the best way to ask Molly a very important question.

 

“Well, it is her name, unless she decided to change it which bring us back to the topic of rings,” Mycroft’s lips thinned, he hated being interrupted, “As I was saying, I would have no use of Grandma Holmes’ ring, if you wish to persuade Miss Hooper in binding herself to you, all you need do is ask Mummy for it,”

 

“Grandma Holmes’ ring?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to hide his confusion. The ring of which he was well aware of its existence was never something he had considered to give to Molly. As foolish as it was, he never felt like it was something he could ask for. It always seemed like Mycroft had claim over it, though he wasn’t going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of knowing why he hadn’t ask for the said ring.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes in frustration, returning the teacup onto its saucer. “Dear God Sherlock, I’ve always knew you could never keep up with me, but, this is ridiculous,”

 

“Do not patronize me, Mycroft,” Sherlock warned through gritted teeth.

 

“Ring, our family heirloom,” Mycroft sounded exasperated, “It had always been given to the oldest son’s bride, but, as you can see, I have little to no interest in domestication,”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed. It wasn’t a secret, but he wouldn’t dare to think that Mummy and Papa hadn’t hoped that Mycroft would change his mind.

 

“So, brother dear, the ring is yours – rather it’s Miss Hooper’s, if you wish to give it to her,” Mycroft said indifferently. Sherlock could only guess what was going through his older brother’s head. Well, he would rather not.

 

His eyebrows scrunched together, trying to decide whether he should take up on the offer or pass. “Is this some sort of trick?”

 

Mycroft groaned, “I can assure you, it is not,”

 

“No, you don’t do nice Mycroft, it is not who you are,” Sherlock fired back, somewhat tired with the direction of the conversation was heading.

 

“Yes, I plot to overthrow corrupt leaders every other weekend and topple governments twice before Friday,” said Mycroft boringly. He didn’t appear to be none too surprised by Sherlock’s suspicion.

 

Sherlock narrowed his yes. Of course, Mycroft had anticipated this as well. He was always two steps behind when it came to his Mycroft. A fact which he had resented his whole life and learned to appreciate during dire moments.

 

“The ring had been in our family for at least two hundred years. According to father that is and I cannot prove otherwise,” Mycroft began, “Nor do I care to do so. It had symbolized a long and respected marriage filled with love,” he flinched at the word ‘love’. “I thought, considering your affection towards Miss Hooper, the ring would continue its legacy.”

 

Being lost for words was not something Sherlock was accustomed to, but Mycroft managed just about that with the offer. They might not seem eye to eye on many things, still Mycroft seemed to be very fond of Molly. It said a lot how he went as far as offering a family heirloom. Sherlock nodded slightly, “That was a sound argument.”

 

“Of course it was,” said Mycroft indignantly. “Now, brother of mine, I shall be off, infiltration would fail without me overseeing it,” Mycroft was on his feet, swinging the umbrella he had picked up on his side lazily.

 

Sherlock eyed his brother with interest; they are still quite hostile towards each other. But, ever since Molly Hooper came into his life, the hostility had turned into somewhat natural banters between brothers. Something of which Sherlock can say he enjoyed more than their previous arrangement. It felt like he had his protector back, his older brother he remembered from he was a boy.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock called as Mycroft reached for the door handle, “Not that it would change anything, but, do you approve of Molly?”

 

To his benefit, Sherlock didn’t look like a child who was seeking his older brother’s approval, a nod off saying that he was right; he had made the right decision. And to Mycroft’s benefit, his face remained composed even when he was shocked to hear such question from Sherlock.

 

“I do believe Molly Hooper could do a lot worse than you, Sherlock,” said Mycroft as the brothers caught the faint sound of Mrs Hudson singing rather loudly from her own kitchen. “And you, brother dear, should very well remember she would always deserve the best, better than best,”

 

Sherlock nodded and Mycroft in turn curtly turn on his heels. Whether they admit it or not, the two bothers cared deeply for one another. They might not be hanging out every other weekend chugging down beer, enjoying each other’s company – no, it was not their style, but, they care for each other. And Sherlock, he appreciated that in so many ways, Mycroft had accepted Molly Hooper was better than good for Sherlock.

 


End file.
